


Eros And Pallas Athene

by jambal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, John-centric, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Reunion Sex, Rimming, Sherlock-centric, Slash, Story of two perspectives, Unresolved Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambal/pseuds/jambal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The union of head and heart.</p><p>Sherlock's return and the subsequent events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whywouldIwanttohavedinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whywouldIwanttohavedinner/gifts).



> Gifting this to Line. She was lovely throughout this monstrosity and I don't think I would have finished it without her.
> 
> Wherein I tried to write angst and then sex happened.

He's trembling like he has seen a ghost.

I guess he has, because you're alive.

You're breathing and to him that's impossible.

(You were dead, remember?)

He's gazing into space and you can see the cogs turning in his mind. You can see thoughts forming and then evaporating into the atmosphere. He's speechless. He's not the same.

You're terrified, aren't you?

If this was before he would have called you a fucking idiot and punched you. He would have reacted. He would have thrown word grenades, watched as they exploded and in the wake of their devastation he would have followed you into the darkness. The safety of that fact kept you from pouring the acid of your betrayal over your heart. But now he's speechless. He's unmoving and he's not reacting... But this is not before, this is now and he's different.

His face is stony and for the first time in both of your lifetimes you are doubting your observations, you're doubting the only other soul you know as much and as little as yourself. You think that you're losing him, when in fact you've already lost him. He's not the John Watson you knew, or loved, or owned. He's no longer yours and isn't that a tiny slice through an artery.

Tiny and seemingly insignificant; yet utterly monumental and fatal.

He hasn't looked at you.

You cannot see his eyes and you can feel yourself willing them to be as blue as that day. Keep your eyes fixed on me, is what you said and he did. He didn't break that gaze, those eyes followed you as you fell and they _widened_ , never wavering, as you made impact with the pavement.

They widened.

You will never forget them.

So blue and so, irrevocably boring.

So boring that they captivated every morsel of your attention.

They had to be the last thing you saw.

He had to be the last thing you saw.

He was so much more than those boring, blue eyes. He was so much more than a companion. He was something that no one should lose. If everyone on this earth were to lose a John Watson, it would be to lose one's faith in everything. Mountains would shake, rivers would evaporate... Like those words which have not been uttered. He still hasn't looked at you. He's gazing at the floorboards; you can see him counting the grains, burned into the wood for eternity, like him. He's for an eternity, or he was. You cannot possibly know until he says something, until he reacts.

He used to react. One time he would have reacted to everything.

Time should heal. But time has imploded the necessity of a partnership, it has retracted its promises and has destroyed everything you both worked for. You have destroyed everything you both worked for. You are a destroyer and he still hasn't looked at you. He hates you... Or he doesn't hate you. Hate is a powerful emotion. Hate is a reaction and he has not reacted. He finds no need for you. He doesn't care enough to hate you. He doesn't care enough to react.

You immerse yourself in his silence. You let it wash over you and it's all consuming and-

"Where have you been?"

You're startled by his words, their being so cold and clipped. They weigh more than you feel and you feel very heavy right now. Everything is pulling you towards him and before you can compose yourself and correct the mistake you are on your knees and in front of him. Your face is pressed against his leg and you can't breathe, so you close your eyes and the entire weight of the moment is pulling your face closer to his knee and you can feel the restraint in him. You can feel him tense and he's breathing hard and deep and you can feel it rumble down his body as it presses and possesses you.

A reaction.

You can breathe again and those breaths are sighs against his clothed joint and there's a firmness pushing on your head and you don't open your eyes - you still haven't seen his eyes - you can feel it press and push and it's almost painful but it's a constant, in that moment. The weight of his hand on your head is a relief from the moments of silence and unuttered recriminations. You want to answer his question, that damned utterance which is cutting and bears more responsibility than you can manage; right now that weight on your head is all that can consume and construct. It's the only thing worth fighting for. Fight him for that weight, for that reassurance.

Where have you been? You know where your body has been. Is that his question? Does he wish to know where your mind has been? Or your heart? Tell him where your heart has been. Tell him that it has been beating and circulating inside one, John Watson. Tell him that your heart only beats for him. Oh, that's right. You cannot. Sentiment. Right.

Remember that day you woke up needing him?

Do you remember breaking into a cold-sweat and you couldn't breathe? Remember? Do you remember the feeling of needing him so much and feeling powerless?

The great Sherlock Holmes; powerless in the face of sentiment.

That's one for the books.

The World's only Consulting Detective; stumped by love.

Mycroft would have a field day.

If you open your eyes you'll see him gazing down at you. Those boring, blue eyes are softer after the newness of this embrace. This thing that happened and perhaps shouldn't have happened and yet his eyes as they gaze at you are searching for more.

You look up and for the first time you can see him. He's older in an obvious way, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth are more defined and you could bury yourself in them and be content. He looks older. He is older. You smile to yourself because in that moment, although you are both older and although you are almost strangers, you realise that he has not changed. You have not changed. His hand falls to your neck and he begins to trace light circles, he's tracing your heart - beat.  
He's committing it to memory.

Time is passing and passing and you're both gazing and gazing. It's comfortable and perhaps it's a white flag. You lean into his hand and his callouses mingle with your stubble and it's a wave-like motion. The bristles interpolating with the grains. The give and take and the brashness is a comfort while on your knees. He stills his hand, never breaking the gaze, and you can see him thinking. You know what he is thinking. He thinks you're uncomfortable and he wants to push you back and perhaps lift you to your feet. Perhaps he wants to take your hand and lead you to that room, that room you used to own. Perhaps he just wants to push you and forget. Whatever he wants, he's almost done deciding.

With one final caress he pushes you back gently and rises to his feet. He looks around the room absently. He's still a little unsure. You're looking up at him and the contact that you miss on your neck is almost a burning sensation. You can feel where his hand was pressed to your skin, it prickles and you can almost feel beads of perspiration begin to gather at the nape of your neck, you want to wipe it dry, but you cannot. For you might wipe away that sensation of contact and skin on skin.  
His flesh was pressed against you and you wonder if all of his flesh feels as wonderful as a hand pressed to your neck.

You think of his hand pressed against your thigh, tracing those frustratingly addictive circles and then rising until his hand, that calloused hand begins to press somewhere different. Definitely somewhere dangerous.  
Hot and heavy and aching. Perhaps he will press and those eyes will look you over and he will press on, slick hands pressing and pushing and pulling and you release with a bitten off cry because how can you let go now? How could you run again? You won't run again. That's what his eyes would say. That is what they have been saying for the entire afternoon. Do not run again, or we will be broken and unfixable. You would think about telling him about love but the thought would die on your lips, just a breath in the end. A breath he appreciates because one breath amongst many others is better than your last.

His glaze flickers down to you and a small smile pulls on his lips. He holds out his hand and you hesitate, why do you hesitate? You want this. You want to stumble into that room and fuck him. The look in those incredibly boring, blue eyes suggests that he would let you and perhaps later he would trace those circles on the inside of your thigh and then fuck you until tears fell back into your eyes, blinding you and you were panting his name like an incantation. Or a prayer. Or just to be heard.

You close your eyes for a moment and your breathing is coming in gasps and sighs and you must look so incredibly lost and devoid of all that which he was attracted to before you got yourself killed. You're not the man he was impressed by those years ago. He hasn't said you're amazing or incredible. He hasn't commended you on your fake suicide.

He pities you.

You open your eyes and the lines on his face are contorted into something that is all too familiar; he is worried. His hand is still there, beckoning you to him and his eyes are still wanting, but those damned lines; worried.

You take his hand and it's warm. The lines across his face contort again. But he's smiling. He helps pull you to your feet and the positions settle in the past. This could be a scene from three years previous. You're standing so close. You're gazing down at him and you capture one of his breaths and gulp it down to quench something.

The air is thick and things that he wants to say are dying. They're dying because you have swooped down and captured his lips. Lips that feel much softer and yielding than they appear. It's a first kiss. Lips moving with a seemingly practised ease and synchronicity. Hot breaths are coming and going and hands are clutching at offending pieces of fabric. One hand presses against bare flesh and there's a moan, wherein a tongue takes its opportunity and dives into a mouth and bodies press together, hard. More moans and tongues and there's a hot press against your thigh.

You both move and you're in that room. You want to open your eyes and see all that has changed, you want to see what has been deleted and what has stayed. You can't. You're breathing into him and you're stealing a grasp of flesh and he moans, directly into your mouth and you can feel it reverberate over his flesh as his other hand snakes down and palms you through your trousers. You gasp as he presses hard and that's all the incentive you need really.

Clothes are pulled and kisses are stolen between grasps. You stand before each other, underwear as the only barrier, the only wall keeping you from claiming him. Lavish kisses. Deep kisses. Kisses that were not a promise but a claim. They were a fulfilment.  
You kiss until it isn’t enough and before either of you can put a halt to this and retrace those hungry steps, back to the living room where unspoken emotions were lingering and seemingly drifting, he's underneath you and you're grinding your hips over his. Your almost-hard cock rocking back and forth over his, just the barrier of soft cotton prolonging the inevitable.

He opens his eyes to read your face, to see anything that would tell him where this was going and what exactly it was that you are doing. You open your eyes to him, those blue eyes staring at you. You continue to grind your hips over his; your faces are so, incredibly close. Your breaths mingling and your eyes producing almost electricity. It is searingly intimate and you continue to stare until a low moan is torn from his lungs and he's trembling again, he's close and you're close. You don't want it to end this quickly. You create space between you both and you're panting and almost shaking into oblivion. You move closer to him and slowly drag his boxers down his thighs, he moans as the elastic of the waistband tugs at his foreskin. You picture him spilling his release into his boxers and you shudder as you bend down to place an opened mouth something to the head of his cock. It's leaking and it glistens. Your tongue darts out and you take the head into your mouth, tasting the fluid and swallowing it down with your own saliva, two fluids mingling together and it's quite the concoction.

You release the head of his cock and press your lips softly on his hip. You move your lips across the sparse hairs leading downward from his naval. He's sighing above you and you allow yourself to climb up him. You want to straddle his thighs but you can see that he's still trembling and instead you seal a kiss on his neck, darting your tongue out and tasting the salty beads of perspiration pooling in his collarbone.  
You press kisses over his chest and you travel down, you pull his knees up and lick the puckered opening that flutters and aches to be penetrated. You press your tongue inside and work him open. It's slick and it's heady. You revel in the taste and smell of him. It's all consuming and you tremble as you feel his muscles contract and he's shaking. You pull back, breathless. You're restless and you can feel the throbbing pressure of your erection. It beats in tandem with his heart.

You lie back and you pull him on top of you. He straddles your thighs and your erections brush, causing a shudder to rumble through you both. You place your hands on his hips and trace circles with your thumbs over his flesh. He opens his eyes to you and nods once before reaching over you to retrieve something from the bedside cabinet. He reappears, smiling, holding a small bottle of lubricant. 

You take it from his hands, both trembling slightly. You take a liberal amount and you coat your cock, which tremors slightly from the much needed contact. A hand is placed on your neck and you close your eyes at the contact. There's movement above you and a strong, calloused hand takes hold of the base of your cock and you can feel him. He's tight, but he's eager, he's slick enough and he's easing himself down and the air is heavy and dense. You have not felt something this intense in a long time and it's like that first hit and it may be just as addictive. He's flush with your groin and you can vaguely feel him rock his hips back and fourth as he accommodates the invasion, he's moaning above you but it feels light years away. There's a thrumming in your ears and your hips buck at a sudden sensation and he shouts above you, a profanity, a cry of unabashed pleasure, torn from his lungs. You open your eyes and they widen as you see him; his hair is drenched with sweat and his neck and chest are damp and his eyes are shut tight. He's biting his bottom lip and as you buck your hips his eyes shoot open and his gaze finds yours and there's a cry on his lips and it's your name. You shake the sensations, trying to cotton-pick his dialogue, he's chanting your name, he's moaning your name and you buck your hips again, sending spikes of pleasure throughout the bedroom and there are obscene sounds and slick hands grasping to equally slick flesh. 

You feel as though you're soaring and you have never felt so free in being pinned down by such a weight, such a welcome weight. He's holding you down, he's an anchor. He's a saviour and as the thought dies on your lips you come. You come in a wave of cries. You clutch onto his hips, sure to leave bruises and you yell until your heart is ready to burst from your chest. You release inside of him and he's thrashing above you still, clasping onto his own cock, pulling and pulling until he too is coming. 

You lay beneath him, the wetness from his orgasm is marking you. You picture yourself, still moving your hips in rhythmic circles, trying to find as much friction and it wasn’t long before you could go again. A bitten off moan interrupts that thought and he's lying on top of you, slowly dragging up his own foreskin, quietly wanking himself. His gaze is rested on you and he licks his lips. His arm stutters, his body still sensitive after orgasm. You place your hand over his and your gaze is as strong, as strong as your two hands working together. It's slick and you imagine he's growing harder. You imagine that you can feel yourself get hard also. His face is close to yours and everything that transpired in the living room is forgotten, for now. His forehead drops down and touches yours, slick with perspiration. You lie together for a few moments and-

"That was amazing."

You're not sure what to say. Words have seemed so foreign, so destructive.

"Really?"

"Yes. Truly ah-amazing."

This reminds you of a conversation you both had. It seems like a lifetime ago. I guess, in a way, it was.

You think of telling him this.

"We've had this conversation before..."

He looks at you, puzzled. He doesn't remember.

"It's not important. It was a long time ago."

His frown deepens. Chose to forget. Remembered to remember.

"No, I remember."

You don't reply. He feels distant. You want to pull him closer. He's already so, incredibly close and yet he seems like he's slipping away from you. If only you could burrow into John Watson and allow him to consume you. If only he knew how much you need this... Or anything.

"Sherlock..."

You're not sure if this is a question or if he's using your name in vain.

"Yes?"

Your eyes are closed but you can feel his lips curl into a smile against your cheek.

"You're an idiot."

A reaction.

A pure, powerful and unadulterated reaction.

You open your eyes and his soft gaze is pouring over you like honey. He's not smiling but there's an achingly strong contentment in his eyes.  
You allow yourself to smile.

Time doesn't heal. Time doesn't even destroy. Time is a constant.  
It carries you through the reeds by its current. It carries you. It doesn't heal your wounds and it doesn't create new wounds. It lets the salt seep in to the lacerations, only to remind you of what is important and of what is constant. It carries you back and reminds you that you can ignore it, mute it, try to obliterate it, but you can never extract it out of you. It will never leave you. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.

"Yours."

Whispered. He didn't hear you, you think. You smile anyway and snake your arm around him, pulling him closer. Impossibly close. Your chests move in waves and your breathing is indistinguishable. The silence washes over you and it's refreshingly immediate and reminds you that you're going to have to face the world. You will face the world with a John Watson by your side and that is the greatest relief. Do you deserve it? Will he realise that he can be incandescently happy without-

"Undoubtedly."

You find his lips in the darkness and he sighs into your mouth. Perhaps he is content. Perhaps time in its constant form has prevailed and perhaps everything will be fine. Those unuttered recriminations may seep into the bedroom when the sun sets, but currently you are both content. And perhaps that is enough.


	2. John

You're gazing into space and you're being swept away.

He's alive and right now would probably be a good time to punch him. He lied to you. You're speechless and he is right there. He's staring at you; his eyes are searching, but they're bright and processing. He's processing something... And Christ, how you've missed that.

Jesus, he's alive.

He's breathing and it's so fantastic and impossible. You have waited for this and now all you can do is stare at the floor.

Why haven't you said anything?

If this was before you would have hit him or yelled or left. You used to be incredibly good at storming out on this madman. This infuriating, dead, not dead, alive - he's very much alive - madman. He's still staring at you. You should probably say something, anything... Because he's not going to give this up. Ghosts are stubborn like that. You're stubborn, too. Stop looking at the goddamn floor and look at him. That face - oh, yes- those eyes and that face. Fuck, look at that face. You're missing something exquisite. He's just staring and you know that you are consuming his thoughts. Just imagine it; imagine that you, you alone are consuming that brilliant mind. Boring John Watson, you are the one fixed point in a forever changing age.

He hasn't shaved. There's stubble protruding from his usually smooth, tamed chin and it's an invitation to feel and consume. It's brash and you need to touch and scrape and own it.  
This is not before. This is now and now is so, incredibly raw and imposing. He's staring at you and it's an unbearable force that you cannot fathom. Has he changed? Look at him.

He betrayed you.

Do you trust him still?

Of course you do.

You would risk everything to follow him into the darkness, and isn't that a terrifying and electrifying thought? You want to look at him. You want to see those eyes; those eyes which emit a charge so imposing and commanding. Exploding into tiny fragments of light. Just take one look, one look and then you can walk away. You can leave him in the wake of his return and you can let go. You could free yourself from the media onslaught, the rumours, the accusations and you can be free of him. You want to leave him. You must want to leave him?

Look at him.

You want to see his eyes. You can feel the strain of muscles as you command your body to obey. You remember the last time you saw those eyes. They closed in a long blink before he fell. Tears streaming and seemingly blinding him of his senses. He fell and you couldn't take your eyes off him.

You want to leave.

All colours of the ocean and the tears streamed like a waterfall. Falling into an oblivion-like ocean, mingling with blood and a solid impact that thuds still, in your head. Drumming and stuttering like a heart succumbing to death.

You were the last thing that he saw.

Your vacant and boring expression consumed that great mind in its seemingly final moments, and that was the final thing he saw.

Except he's alive... You were not the last thing he saw.

You were not the soul exception in a world of misconceptions and obliviousness.

You were a means to an end.

You have been locked up in yourself, you never thought you would get freed. Free yourself, John.

Three years.

Where has he been? Why did he leave you for so long? Why have you not reacted? You're still staring at the floorboards and he's getting restless-

"Where have you been?"

You can do better than that. He's going to call you an idiot... And mate, you bring this upon yourself. Walk away. This is the closure you need to let go. It has been three years of wondering. It has been three years of loneliness. No one has come close, in three years. Now he's back and you can feel that tightness in your chest; your shoulder has eased and there's a heavy weight pulling you somewhere, in the pit of your stomach.

Of course.

You've accepted it.

You accepted it the moment he walked through the door.

You haven't forgiven him, far from it.

You're hesitant. You're a fool. You're human.

Before you can look at him you're startled out of your silent, almost soliloquy. He's on his knees in front of you and he's pressing his head against you and there's a heat radiating from his touch. He has never felt this warm, this alive. God, he is so alive and it's enough for you to leave everything in the past and start again with him, against the world. He's trembling against you and you feel immense pity for him... And something that, when uttered, is foreign. Except it isn't foreign at all. You do love him and the only thing you can think to do is reach out your hand and let it rest on top of his head. Resting and waiting for a reaction. You don't realise how laboured your breathing is (you're almost gasping) or how tense you have become. Surely he must be aware of this? Of course he is, because he is burrowing deeper. Perhaps he's trying to posses you. Perhaps he's trying to be possessed because his jaw is an anchor as you are drifting.

Your hand seizes and you realise you're panicking. He doesn't flinch, if anything he sighs in a sort of contentment and your hand moves back and forth - soothing something that your mind has decided is important - or different, or necessary. He must be in pain and you can hear screams from your mind in the distance. They're telling you to release. They're telling you to run. They're telling you to react.

They're lying for you both.

You release a breath that you cannot remember holding. You feel him shudder and your sighs mingle in the no man's land between your two bodies. It simmers for a moment and then wafts upwards, spiralling around you both; encapsulating the moment for eternity.

This isn't normal. You know that.

Yet, you're staying.

You will always stay because the thought of losing him twice is unbearable. It's inconceivable. You will never leave him voluntarily, not ever. And that is terrifying.

Your hand is seizing and your heart is beating faster and faster, you can barely stand it. You can't stand it. Any of it. But you have to leave him. Even you wouldn't resort to such blatant self-destruction... Would you?

You would.

Remember that day you realised those memories were irreplaceable?

Those memories. The ones you have locked away. The memories you vowed to ignore for all intents and purposes --

you did not sign up for most of what your life has become-

he isn't what you thought your life would orbit around. He isn't what you thought... He isn't... But with Sherlock all laws and dreams and fixations relating to yourself seem to blur slightly and you find that those laws were rewritten, those dreams rethought and those searing fixations were obliterated... All in that moment he fell.

Do you remember the feeling of emptiness, as every moment you shared with him seemed to flood past you in a wave of missed opportunities? Do you remember the feeling of missing him so much and feeling completely invalid?

He's here.

He's sitting by your feet and he's here.

You find yourself gazing down at him. His face is pressed against your knee. His features are softer, gentler even. His eyelids are fluttering as if he's remembering something. You continue to gaze and you find yourself yielding to him. You're looking for reassurance and you're willing him to look at you.

He looks up and for the first time you can see everything he can see. For the first time in three years you feel a serene calm wash over you. His eyes wash over you. Those eyes that consumed most of your thoughts and dreams for three years, wash over you. He is the same. You smile to yourself because he is exactly the same and it's a blessing as well as a reassurance. You realise that your hand is now tracing small circles on his neck. That wondrous neck. And you can feel his heartbeat. It's a soothing contrast to those fleeting moments. The death. You trace circles and you think of his heartbeat. You think of how entirely and irrevocably alive he is.

Time is seemingly beginning to blur around the edges. Your gazes do not waver. He's leaning into your touch and it's reassuring. It's comfortable and it's exactly what used to terrify you. It shouldn't be this easy. He shouldn't return, fall to his knees and capture your heart.

He should never have left you.

You still have nightmares. His suicide may have been an elaborate - Amazing... Outstanding - cowardly rouse. But you saw him fall. You saw his body fall to the ground, like pieces falling into place and the impact with the pavement is enough to wake you. You can see his eyes. Dead. Unresponsive

Except he was alive. Did he see you fighting back tears? Or the urge to vomit? Or the sensation of a scream building in your lungs? You were disorientated. You were breathless. You held his lifeless wrist in your hand and all the while he was alive and perhaps he was fighting back his own demons... Perhaps he was fighting back tears...

Perhaps that moment was just as difficult for him...

Perhaps he is as broken as you are...

That feeling is back.

You could cry. You could vomit. You could scream.

Your hand stills. He's gazing up at you and his eyes are so, incredibly inviting. Your gaze flickers over him and you realise he's still perched on his knees. Discomfort is vaguely flashing over his face. Although, he is excellent at hiding what he's feeling.

You're excellent, too.

You hid very well, Watson. You should be proud. You did an admirable job... Pretending that you didn't love this man. Your demons used to be vicious... Dangerous, even. Yet, until today they were the only constant and comfort... Your demons brought him back to you.

His stubble is a comfort beneath your fingers. It itches in a wonderful way. It reminds you of a memory that you locked somewhere-

Sherlock's hand resting on your forearm as he leans in... He's looking over your shoulder... He's reading something and his cheek is almost touching your temple and you can almost feel bristles, but you don't know if you're imagining it.

Perhaps you were

Perhaps you imagined most of it

You give his neck one final caress and you push him back, softly. He's gazing at you expectantly. Oh, what you could do to him... What you would let him do to you... It's equal parts terrifying and electrifying. You don't know what to do next. You suppose you should stand up. You suppose you should make a bloody decision.

You do stand.

You gaze around the room and everything appears to be more familiar than you can remember, in three years. Your eyes flicker around a room that has felt strange for so long, so foreign and not your home, for so long... And yet here you are. He's kneeling at your feet and gazing up at you.

You could run.

Your eyes flicker to the door and it's closed tight; just how you left it. Of course you would. That door has been closed for three, long years. You didn't think it would be possible. You willed it to happen but it seemed like some deranged nightmare. It seemed...

Your hand had lingered on his neck; that wondrous neck. Your fingers were a searing heat across his skin and you could feel his pulse and you absently traced it. He let you touch him. He allowed your touch to linger. You imagine his touch. His long, pale fingers tracing something across your skin or breaching you and bringing you to the edge; with some breathless proclamation, to a questionable deity, dying on your lips as he tears you apart.

He lets out a hushed breath; the beginning of an utterance.

You have already forgotten how novel it is to see him breathe. Each breath is a thread in the cloths of heaven and it's much more intimate than your carnal desires, because he's breathing as if each breath is for you, his eyes are resting on you, his thoughts are consumed with you and that is exactly why you will not run.

Your gaze lands on him and a small smile pulls at your lips; almost pulling you in two. He's still staring at you and there's an almost blank expression across his face, but his gaze is intent and you know that you are consuming that wonderful mind. Without thinking you hold out your hand as an invitation. There's a shifting movement of hesitation and nothing short of sheer panic is plain across his face. His breathing is coming in gasps and sighs and he looks the most human you have ever seen him. His pale face is tinted rose and those full, red lips are quivering slightly. You want to tell him that you're worried, you wish to ask him if the memory he is recounting is painful or something else... But the thought dies as he opens his eyes to you. They're two black moons of desire and that's all the incentive you need, really.

He takes your hand and you can feel the lines of your face contort as you try not to beam down at him, you have never felt this simultaneously sure and unsure of yourself and of what you're intending to do. You help pull him to his feet and your positions settle; just like that first night, you think, but the thought evaporates when you look up at him and it's so, intensely familiar. So, irrevocably written in stone. You are sure that this is what is certain. You're standing so close to him, you can feel his breath ghost the top of your head and you release a sigh that you see him savour. You have decided that this is worth the storm because if he could stand before you, unashamedly open and alive, then you can stand by him when the curtains are drawn and he must answer to his demons.

You think of telling him this. You need to tell him this. But your words are drowning. They're drowning because he has crashed down and captured your lips. This first kiss; his lips are rapid, yet they're soft. So soft and forgiving. And you do forgive. Your lips are moving in a wave-like motion and you're capturing each other with such a naturalistic synchronicity. Hot breaths are steaming around you both and hands are seeking purchase at offending pieces of fabric. It's rough and it's consumed by desire and danger. But isn't that exactly what you expected?

This is dangerous and before you can pull back you feel a hot press - it's hard and wanting. It's you. You press against him and he moans a breath into your mouth. You steal it as your own.

You're moving backwards and he's following. You're still kissing and it's lips against chins and teeth clicking and tongues sweeping. You're still pulling and being pushed - licking and biting your way to his bedroom.

Sherlock's bedroom.

You open your eyes as you kiss him and it's a glorious sight. His eyelids flutter as his eyes dance and you will him to tell you what he's thinking -- but that means breaking this kiss and really John, that isn't an option. He's breathing into you and you can feel his hands grasping at your flesh and you moan, directly into his mouth. You shiver as his breath hitches and his hands clutch to your waist and you momentarily think of the marks he is leaving and will leave and you smile into this kiss. This infinite kiss with similarly infinite possibilities. You snake your hand down to palm him through his trousers and he gasps at the contact -- you moan again. He is almost hard and it's for you and his length is a growing testament to how much he wants this -- you. He wants you.

You press against him hard and his eyes shoot open. You swear you can see stars. Clothes are tugged and kisses are lavished between quiet sobs and even quieter gasps and small, yet momentous grasps. Underwear seems to be the only barrier and you continue to touch and explore and own. Kisses that are fleeting and break with a whimper and you crash together again. Kisses that are a promise to something infinite. Kisses that allow you to breathe and believe once more. You never stopped believing. But breathing did become more difficult. Now he's here to resuscitate you. He's giving you every breath you have missed for three years. He's giving you his breaths, sighs and moans to compensate for those that you missed and you inhale them with vigour.

You break the kiss momentarily and pull him towards the bed. You're lingering on the edge of something exquisite and he's on top of you, grinding his hips over yours. You close your eyes and you feel like you're being swept away. You can hear yourself asking him something. It's in your mind. You're asking him to stay. His cock his rocking over yours and you can feel the blossoming of your orgasm or something wonderful in the pit of your stomach.

You open your eyes and his face his intimately close to yours. There's a flush across his cheeks and it continues down his neck and across his chest. He opens his eyes to you -- those eyes which have been the cause of so much destruction. You shake the thought away and he grinds down on you again and again. Your nose brushes his cheek, you take a swift inhale and your senses seem to have encapsulated in this moment and it's a mixture so intoxicating, it overwhelms you.

Your breaths are mingling and your eyes are never-wavering. It's almost treacherous -- your lips are so close, not touching but almost. You continue to stare until a low moan is forced from your lungs. You're trembling. You like it. You're being swept away again and it's refreshing. You needed this. Friction --

you're close and he's closer.

He pulls back and sits on his heels. He's panting, almost shaking. You match him. You feel dizzy with arousal and suddenly he's closer to you, in one blink. He reaches for the waistband of your boxers and begins to slowly drag them down your thighs. The elastic tugs at your foreskin and you moan into his neck, darting your tongue out and tasting whatever skin presents itself. As your tongue goes to dart out again he has moved to place a soft kiss to the head of your cock. You fall back against the mattress and you revel in the new -- very new, sensation. You've had blow jobs before. Plenty of them. But this, this is different. His stubble is a welcome form of friction and you try to pinpoint all of these new sensations. His tongue is working the head of your cock slowly and delicately. You think about the moments in the living room -- the things that haven't been said. They evaporate as he places a light kiss below your navel. Your breathing is coming in sighs and his breath is sporadic against your skin.

He moves above you. The feeling is distant as you tremble against the mattress. A tongue laps out and tastes you. The soft sensation of his lips and tongue pressing against your collarbone is almost enough. He pulls back suddenly and travels down your chest, placing light kisses. He pulls your knees up and -- and you can't --

His tongue licks at your opening and you're writhing beneath him. You need something that you cannot comprehend. Something addictive, definitely something dangerous. His tongue continues to work you open. The cool wetness of his saliva and the hot breaths are heady sensations. You're shaking. You think about touching where he has been. Feeing how open you are. He moves above you and now you're on top of him. Your erections brush, causing a shudder to rumble through you both. He places his hands on your hips and begins to absently trace circles. You look down at your erection and a smile threatens to peak through your arousal. He's matching you. You look up at him. He's staring at you. You give a curt nod and reach over him to retrieve a bottle of lubricant from the bedside cabinet. You reappear smiling and his eyes are bright.

He takes it from your hands and coats his cock liberally. You sigh as his long, slender fingers work the lubricant over his erection. Your mouth waters and your tongue instinctively darts out to lick your bottom lip. You place your hand on his neck and his pulse is banging, it's thrashing like waves and you try to think of something profound -- something beautiful to tell him -- because he is and you cannot comprehend it. He is lying beneath you and his breathing is coming is gasps. Like he's drowning, you think. You close your eyes for a moment --

His eyes had glazed over completely and he was utterly lifeless, yet he was still warm... Wasn't he? Treacherous. Like rocks beneath waves. Cutting and devious. Cold and warm.

  
Your eyes open to him. He's still panting beneath you and something shifts --

You shift above him before taking a firm hold of his cock. You close your eyes and take a breath before guiding him to breach you. The searing stretch of your hole around his cock is obliterated when you hear him whimper. It spurs you on and you ease yourself down, until you're flush with his groin. You think about the stretch from his cock and you try to catch your breath -- you think of calling out, but all you can do is moan above him. The sensations are overwhelming and you think of pulling off and running -- running -- He's beside you. Somewhere. He's beside you and beneath you. You listen to him as he whispers in your ear. Encouraging you. Whispering words of wisdom and with that you shift your weight --

you're bulldozed by the sensation. You rock your hips again. You're full of him and it's almost too much, too unforgiving to the senses. You're moaning again and you're not sure if you even stopped. Time has seemed to lapse and you can't focus on the now. He's beneath you, you know. You nod to yourself, moaning with every brush of his cock over your prostate. There is so much. So much of everything and before you reach down to pull at your aching erection, he bucks his hips up and it stops--

Everything stops.

You shout out. Something inane. Something you won't remember. It comes in waves and you feel words tumble from your mouth into the atmosphere. Cries of anguish and pleasure, torn from you. You're biting your bottom lip and -- and _oh, God. Yes. That's it_

He bucks his hips again and your eyes shoot open. You're panting his name over and over. A sacred litany of _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

His eyes are searching for something. He's miles away as he fucks you, hard and relentless. You're chanting his name like an incantation and your hands fall to his chest and it's slick with sweat and you think of licking every inch of his chest later and the thought stirs something in you --

He's coming.

He's arching beneath you.

He's yelling and it's gorgeous.

You can feel his dick pulse inside of you.

You can't close your eyes.

You're trashing above him and you try to catch your breath as the slick feeling of his cock inside of you almost tips you over the edge.

You grasp your own cock and you pull and pull and --

And you're coming. It crashes through you like an epiphany. Sincerely profound and everlastingly definite. It marks you and it marks him and you're branded here together, for eternity. You collapse on top of him. Your forehead rests on his chest and you try to catch your breath with feeble gulps of the air that surrounds you both. Your gaze rests on his face and you snake your hand down. Your cock is flaccid and lies satisfied on his stomach. Your take a hold of yourself. You're still incredibly sensitive and the feeling is like an awakening. You softly drag your foreskin up and down, slowly wanking yourself. A moan escapes your lips and his eyes snap to you -- his focus pouring over you like an ice-cold shower. It's refreshing and devastating. Your hand stutters as you try to regain a rhythm and you move closer to him. Your faces being so, incredibly close.  
You won't get hard again this soon but the feeling of over-sensitive flesh against your fingertips is making you lightheaded and it reminds you of why you feel this way. He makes you feel this way --

He places his hand over yours and you both continue to drag your foreskin up and down. You drop your forehead down to his. Both slick with perspiration. The silence as you lie together is comfortable and you will him to break it. You will him to say something reassuring -- you realise who you're with --

"That was amazing."

Your words simmer for a moment. He shifts beneath you and you smile to yourself. That's a first.

"Really?"

"Yes. Truly ah-amazing "

The silence stretches on again and you feel peaceful. The thought shakes you. Peaceful.

"We've had this conversation before..."

What is he rattling on about?

You look at him, puzzled.

_oh_

"It's not important. It was a long time ago."

You frown. He's not making this easy. Did he really catalogue the times you praised him? Apparently yes. They're not important.  
They're data.

Data.

"No, I remember."

Of course you remember. Because he was -- is. He is. He's still those things, you know it. You love him for it. You love him in spite of it.

You love him.

"Sherlock..."

He winces. You shake your head. You don't suppose he realises.

"Yes?"

Question. He doesn't know and you smile against his cheek.

"You're an idiot."

That's it, really. That's all you need to say because now he knows and that's enough for now. He opens his eyes to you -- his gaze is luxurious and you cannot help but stare back as intently. Your eyes are bright and his breathing relaxes. His heart beats in tandem with yours and he -- he smiles.

You feel incredibly at ease. You think about the time you spent apart. You think about the time you spent together. Wounds still need to be healed, they still need to be patched up and ridded of the debris from the devastation. You realise this and yet you could lie here and wait for the onslaught. You would wait for it for an eternity because right now he is anchored by you and you by him. You're reminded of what is important and of what is constant --

"Yours."

You're startled from your thoughts by his whisper. You feel the pressure of his admission build in your throat. You can feel it build and build and his strong arm snakes around your waist. You feel adrift and he's trying to pull you towards the shore. Your breathing is almost laboured and your chests move together, as one.

The silence pulls over you like the tide and retreats suddenly before washing over you again and again -- his

"Undoubtedly."

Your words flood over him and his stillness is a blessing. He turns to find your lips in the darkness. You sigh into his mouth and time seems to flatline. Your lips move against his and you nip lightly, tasting him as much as you can. There's a pressure building in your throat and it threatens behind your eyes. Time may be static. Time may or may not have healed. You think about the days to come and the months after that. You even let you mind ponder on years. You think of asking him about what you plan to do. You think about it --

Your eyes flutter closed. Your worries fade into the darkness.

Plans are boring.


End file.
